Love Lies
by cece2046
Summary: Life is so, so long.


Hermione Granger is a know-it-all, Miss Perfect, OCD patient, rule-lover, and library fundamentalist. She was already a mature enough lady when she was 13 years old, and still a bookish girl when she's at 35.

This girl is climbing up the fire ladder now, light and graceful like gravity doesn't work on her. Draco is watching her behind his binoculars three thousand feet away. He's been contemplating about whether he should go up there and just say hello. She won't be warm. She could very well be on her guard because of what happened before, but that's okay. Draco is a beautiful man. He's not young anymore, but still beautiful. All guards can be taken down by a beautiful face, even with past bullying and racism.

She moved into the top floor in that apartment three months ago, and started to randomly climb up to the roof two months ago. She looks around, reads, talks to someone on her phone, and writes or draws something in her notebook. Sometimes, her eyes skim over this house Draco hides in - he no doubt found out that bit after he got the binoculars like a stalker. The house is unplottable, just like 12 Grimmauld Place. You just can't see it unless you know it. Draco has gotten used to surviving on the house elves, sometimes playing the piano, sometimes reading. Most of the time, he just lies on the dusty couch in the living room, staring at the clock with intricate golden decorative patterns on the wall opposite him. He's never seen the hands moving ever since he moved in. He's waiting, but not sure what.

The arrival of Hermione Granger was a fresh breeze. He's always considered her that way. When they were in the Order, in the war, she was a miracle of cool wind during an agonizing summer. He was attracted to her, naturally, since he's just an ordinary man with his own best interests at heart. At least, that's what he told himself. He ought to find an ally in an unfamiliar environment. This ally must be sensible, so they won't punch him in the face whenever adults are not present. Powerful and important, too, or he would never reach the status he wants for himself. It seems that his Slytherin ambition still prospered even in the Order of Phoenix, which, ironically, is the symbol of change.

Ah, sweet, sweet Hermione. He remembers his own fingers and tongue comforting every corner of her body, her unfocused eyes on the ceiling, and him between her legs, with absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do. He didn't have anyone to turn to. _Hey, I'm banging Hermione Granger. Remember? One of the best friends of our Great Saver Potter, the brightest witch of our age, core member of the Order, remember? I'm banging her, but you see, here's the thing. I've never… you know. So, are there any tips you could share? Huh? I didn't force her or drug her or anything like that. It's just she's much more mature than you. She knows when to move on. To be honest, so much more mature than you right now. Hey, enough alright? One slap is understandable, you're so out of line with kicking me in the stomach._

Of course, all was solved as time went on. So many people died after all. People die every day. Sometimes on that armchair in the meeting room. Sometimes under their own wands. He remembers when Ron died, there had been so much blood. He was put onto the long table, and Hermione was so busy looking for the few potions and bandages left that she missed the look Ron gave her before he died. That's a look from a dog, cast to the world with so much vulnerability and longing before he dies of old age. Lupin retracted his hands. Draco hesitated, glanced at Hermione who's still looking so hard for Blood Replenishing Potion, and closed Ron's eyes.

He hated the silence descended on her afterwards so much. Hate made him angry, and anger made him act with new determination and cruelty. Sweet Hermione. She just couldn't hold back her moans under his fingers, or keep her eyes unseen in his unrelenting thrusts, even she lived in this huge, all-encompassing silence. Everything worked out fine. He'd stopped being tentative about her feelings, so awkwardness and difficulties disappeared at once. He's the one who solved the problem this time. Hermione was just a little girl who lost her best friend and first love, holding onto him like he's the only piece of floating wood in the sea. After all, Harry Potter had been dead for years. After all, people around her had been dying one by one for years. He became this thing she must hold onto even though he was just a piece of wood that had been floating in the sea for far too long, just waves away from being tore apart by storms. Their every orgasm was a toxic animal corpse, roasted half-raw and eaten in the wild forest of war and life. In some kind wizards' guest room, on the wet and muddy vines in Romanian forests, in a back alley in Muggle London, Hermione Granger slaughtered Death Eaters like a machine, and dropped her pants like a whore. He followed her around like watching a marvelous circus show. Watch her make fighting plans, watch her calculate how many remaining Death Eaters there are in UK, watch her grit her teeth and move on after her friends' death, watch her bow, watch her kill, watch her shield reflecting green lights shot from dark corners - she had become a veteran after all. In the end, he had to leave. That's a pity for him as well. She's the girl he's been in love with.

See, he admitted that to himself. She's the girl he's been in love with. It must be the solitude and emptiness all these years, eroding his brain, the sense of which he was so proud of. He's starting to admit weird things coming out of nowhere. He thinks he must go outside. Maybe tomorrow. He should go wait for her on the roof, wait for her to climb up the ladder and say hello. She won't be warm. She could very well be on her guard because of what happened before, but that's okay. Draco is a beautiful man. He's not young anymore, but still beautiful. All guards can be taken down by a beautiful face, even with past bullying and racism, and murder.

The murder of Ron Weasley shouldn't be logged onto his ledger, though the intel he kept leaking back then everyday kind of indirectly caused the death of the red-hair boy. He was looking at Hermione when he died, a look like an old dog. Draco knows from the very beginning that she came here to kill him. As long as he doesn't leave this house, they can keep this standoff until the end of time, until this house falls down to dust. He knew back when he left her that she would realize the truth of him sooner or later. He doesn't really want to do the standoff, because life is so, so long, and he wants to talk to her. He wants to say that all of his life has been half real and half fake, cornering himself between the devil and the deep blue sea. He's sorry. That's real. He doesn't know if she would allow him the chance to say the words.


End file.
